


Some Kind of Night into your Darkness

by sheesusnat



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Casual Sex, Insomnia, M/M, Unsafe Sex, does it count as pre-slash if they're fucking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheesusnat/pseuds/sheesusnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set the night after the Pens @ Canes game on 2/28. Sidney can't sleep, and he has a tried and true way to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Night into your Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This really just happened because I need some Nealer/Sid fic in my life, and apparently no one else is ever going to write it. So I tossed my hat in the ring. Title from "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star.
> 
> Warning: graphic descriptions of unsafe sex. This is not an endorsement of such, merely a fictional, fantastical account. Always use protection!

  
  
  
  
It's one of those nights when sleep just isn't going to happen. You're tired, of course; it's been a trying night with a lot of questions leading up to it, this first time battle against a friend. Your brain is worn out from too many press requests, your body wracked with bone-deep aches that inevitably come after a hard fought game that didn't go well. You've spent the last couple of hours alternating between staring at the ceiling, the drapes, the red glowing numbers of the clock, even spending some time blindly flipping through the poor channel options on a bad hotel TV.   
  
It isn't helping.  
  
The clock now reads 2:17AM. It's late, but you know that continuing to lie here is useless. Two will turn to three, and at three you'll start counting the hours you have left to rest before you have to wake for practice the following morning, and the rest of the night will be lost in a constant internal fight--if you sleep by three, you'll get four hours of sleep; if you sleep by four, you'll get three hours. You'll probably finally drift off close to sunrise and will still hate the universe when the alarm blares all too early. You need a distraction, and you know just where to find it.  
  
You creep into the hallway of the hotel, still barefoot wearing thermal pajama pants and a nearly threadbare t-shirt. It's four doors down and across the hall, a soft knock and then a louder one, and a few moments later James Neal opens the door, looking confused, his hair stuck up on one side, flat on the other, squinting his eyes against the glare of the corridor light. Before he can ask, you answer simply, "I can't sleep."  
  
It isn't the first time for this, so Nealer just turns and shuffles back to bed, sweatpants draped low on his hips. You follow him inside, closing the door behind with a soft click, navigating the room carefully in the dark. Every hotel room is the same, more or less, so it's with only minimal groping at walls and bumping your hip against the mattress that you reorient yourself.   
  
Once at the bed, you hear fabric slide against fabric, and then a soft thump as James drops his pants to the ground. "I was asleep," he explains unnecessarily, voice still rough.  
  
"Doesn't matter," you respond, tugging your own shirt off, stepping from your pajamas before crawling next to him under the sheets. Nealer's skin is always furnace-hot when he sleeps, just a bit tacky with sweat, but not unpleasantly. He's going to be a lot more sweaty by the time you're finished up with this anyway.   
  
You shift closer, and then on top of him, one leg on either side of Nealer's waist, and you manage to drag a ragged breath out of him as you settle back against his pelvis. Despite being awake for only a few moments, he's clearly interested, his cock already hardening as you rock your hips. You rub your hands over his arms--elbows to biceps, biceps to shoulders, nails raking over his chest--and then trace his pecs with fingers, thumbs, feeling his nipples harden against your palms. _Yeah_ , you think. Even half-awake, Nealer's buttons are easy to find and to push, and after a few moments his cock is thick and full, his hips working a slight rhythm to add some friction. Up and around, just the slightest circle, a lethargic flex to work his dick between the cheeks of your ass.   
  
Sometimes you feel bad for the lack of foreplay, but he never seems to care, and you're not too upset about missing out on it. It's too late to draw this out and savor it--you need a release, a quick fuck, not an hour of lovemaking. Not that you're positive James would even know what to do if you asked him to do that. Hell, not that you're positive you would know what to do with that.  
  
You aren't sure if Nealer has lube, and you don't want to break the silence to ask, so you just slick your fingers with spit and work two carefully inside your hole. It's awkward, the angle bothers your wrist and you're not quite wet enough inside that it doesn't hurt, but it'll do the trick for now. You thrust your fingers deep, spread them wide, rocking back until the ache dulls to a level you can handle, until you're sure you're slick and stretched enough that you won't be skating funny come morning.  
  
"Come on, Sid," James grunts, ever impatient--though you woke him in the middle of the night, so maybe you shouldn't be blaming him for wanting to get on with it.  
  
You spit into your hand once more, reaching behind to curl your fingers around his cock, stroking to slick his shaft as best you can, partially from spit, partially with the precome leaking from the head as you pass your palm over it. He groans and bucks against you, his head falling back on the pillow. Your eyes are adjusted to the dark now, so you can see him, but his lids are heavy, mostly closed, so he's not returning the scrutiny.  
  
A few quick strokes, down to the base and back to the head, a brush of fingertips over his balls, and then you're gripping his cock, shifting your weight, lifting up and angling so you can take the head of his dick inside. It fucking hurts, a sharp spike of pain that arches your back and makes you grit your teeth. Lube would've helped, but there isn't really time for that now, because James' hands are on your hips and he's pressing up deeper, working his dick inside, pushing against the resistance left behind from too little preparation. The room is quiet, just grunts from him and gasps from you, and the blood you can hear rushing in your ears.   
  
James rocks his hips up steadily, never really asking if you're okay, but he knows you'd stop him if you weren't. It takes minutes, maybe, you aren't sure, but eventually the pain subsides from blinding to dull ache and you settle against him, his thighs red-coal hot and slippery with sweat against yours. His hands don't move much, gripping at your hips as he guides you to pull up on his dick, nails digging into your pelvis as he thrusts up deep to meet you there. His head is dropped off to one side, mouth dropped open and dragging in harsh breaths as he sets a rhythm--off beat and a bit faster than you're ready for, but it feels too good to complain.  
  
You brace your hands on his chest, rocking your hips up and feeling him withdraw, stopping when the flare of his cockhead starts stretching your hole again, just enough to make it hurt, before you're pushing back down to the hilt, grinding your ass down against his pelvis, eliciting a grunt and a curse. You steady the pace that way, lifting and dropping down, riding him despite the burn in your hamstrings, your glutes. You're going to feel this tomorrow, in more ways than one.  
  
Nealer's not quite catching your rhythm, but his cock is thick and stretching you, his body arching and flexing beneath you, and that's all you really wanted. You settle against his thrusts as best you can, shifting your hips forward and back, one side and the other, and then fuck, there it is. You can't fight back the moan as his cock grinds up over your prostate, and he smirks when he realizes it. His eyes are closed, but he knows that sound, knows the stutter-shift of your hips when he thrusts just right.   
  
"Fuck yeah, Sid," he mutters on a breath, nails digging harder into your hips as he speeds the pace. You move faster still, one hand at his chest to balance, but with the other you reach down, fingers curled to jerk yourself. "Ride that dick, get yourself off"  
  
His voice is gruff and muffled from sleep, thick and deep with lust, and it goes straight to your groin. You shift your hips faster, riding quick and rolling them in an arc, too far gone to care that the friction's a little too much and the pace a little too fast. You work your fingers over your cock, along the underside, thumb along the ridge, the flare of the head, precome slicking the path.  
  
Nealer's moving in earnest now, practically bouncing you on his lap, his head thrown back on the pillow, thrashing one way and then the other. "Fuck yes, Sid, just like this. Squeeze my big cock, get me off..."  
  
He surges his hips up at that, bucking up hard and pressing right against your prostate. Your head dips back, spine arches forward and you squeeze your cock, moaning harshly as you shoot come over his navel, his abs, threads of white strewn over his pelvis and hipbone.   
  
"Fuck yes, _fuck yes_ ," James mutters, keeping up the same rough, rapid pace, the sound of skin smacking skin echoing in the otherwise quiet room. You squirm against him, overstimulated and gasping to catch your breath, just gripping at his shoulders to hold on as he thrusts, and then he arches high off the bed, his nails digging hard into your thighs as rocks through his orgasm, bucking up hard into you, warm shots filling you as his head lolls back and forth.   
  
When he stops moving beneath you, you shift up and off of him, groaning as you pull completely off of his softening cock. You can feel the come on you--in you--and you just can't bring yourself to care. He grunts at the movement, his hands sliding up over your hips, stomach, tugging you down to lay against him. His skin is slick with sweat, sticky with come, but he's warm and you're not quite sure your legs can hold you just yet, so you stay and catch your breath.  
  
When you're done gasping and your pulse slows you sit up, knowing you should wash off but too damn tired to care. You grasp blindly for your pants, but before you find them, James grumbles a protest. "Just fucking sleep, Sid."  
  
You never stay, not after this. You make a quick, stiff walk of shame back to your room and pass out moments after your head hits the pillow. You shower in the morning and neither of you look each other in the eye at breakfast.  
  
But Nealer's not giving much choice. His arm snakes around your waist and he spoons himself behind you, yanking you away from the edge of the bed. "It's fucking late. Sleep."  
  
Something warm twists low in your gut when his lips brush the back of your neck. But it's late and you're just so fucking tired you don't want to think about it. It's not worth it to fight him on it anyway.   
  
You glance at the clock. 3:04.   
  
If you sleep by 3:10, you can still get three hours and fifty minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, purely for entertainment purposes; I am getting no monetary gain from this. I am making no implications about the real people whose personas are borrowed for this work, nor am I affiliated with them or their teams, or the National Hockey League in any way.


End file.
